Fighting for Rain

by Easton, BB

  These are considered high crimes now, but murder and rape are totally legal.

  Go fucking figure.

  Just before the first of the accused gets to say her last words, I turn and cup my hands over Rain’s ears. She’s not watching the broadcast—her gaze has been glued to her untouched breakfast ever since it came on—but I know she’s listening.

  Her big blue eyes lift, and for a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people in the room.

  Bam!

  I force a small smile as the sound of a body landing at the bottom of a dirt hole reverberates through my fucking soul.

  Bam!

  I smooth my thumbs over her cheekbones, being extra careful with the right side, which is now sporting a gnarly green-and-purple bruise.

  Bam!

  The third convict takes a bullet between the eyes as Rain drinks me in with hers. The corners of her full pink lips twitch as if she wanted to smile back, but she pulls them down and drops her gaze instead.

  Bam!

  I can’t say that I blame her. I’m probably the only motherfucker who can smile while people are being executed on live TV.

  Bam!

  Because I’m the only motherfucker who gets to look at her while it happens.

  Across from us, Quint pushes his plate away and cups a hand over his mouth in disgust while Lamar stares blankly at the screen as if he were just watching another bad horror flick.

  I pull Rain’s head against my chest, thankful that she’s not freaking out, thankful that she’s here with me instead of lying in the bottom of a dirt hole in Plaza Park, and I begin to get the feeling that the executions aren’t the only thing people are watching in the food court.

  I glance up and find Carter’s parents staring at us from a few tables away. His sister is wearing headphones and playing on someone’s cell phone—no doubt to protect her from the mass murders happening on live TV—but her folks are none too happy. Mrs. Renshaw has the Southern decency to look away, but Carter’s dad holds my stare for what feels like hours. There’s no challenge in his puffy, bloodshot eyes—the old bastard can hardly walk—just a deep sadness.

  I know that feeling. I’ve lost her before too.

  Carter didn’t come to breakfast with them, and honestly, I don’t fucking blame him. Just the idea of seeing Rain with someone else was enough to make me pack my shit and go. I want to feel bad for the guy, and I would, if he deserved my sympathy. But I know assholes like him. Popular. Good-looking. Entitled as fuck. Guys like that don’t take rejection well. They throw tantrums like fucking toddlers when shit doesn’t go their way. And wherever Carter is right now, my guess is that he’s plotting his next move, not licking his wounds.

  I look around the room, taking a mental headcount, and a sinking feeling slithers into my gut.

  The runaways are all accounted for at Q’s table—watching their phones and smoking weed and aiming guns at each other’s heads like they’re Governor Fuckface on TV. Quint—who is now down to a large Band-Aid and a couple of aspirin a day—and Lamar are in a heated debate about whether they should steal a Jeep and find a place in the mountains or steal a convertible and try to find a beach house to squat in. And the Renshaws are huddled together as usual, all except for Carter.

  He’s the only one unaccounted for.

  Until that motherfucker marches into the food court, carrying my duffel bag.

  Carter shoots me an eat shit look as he heads straight toward Q’s table, and I laugh—I actually fucking laugh—and shake my head.

  So predictable.

  Rain doesn’t think it’s funny though. She stiffens in my arms the second she sees him.

  I want to reassure her that it’s going to be fine. That no matter what happens, I won’t let these dramatic little bitches hurt her. But I can’t.

  This is post-April 23.

  All bets are off.

  Carter stops directly in front of Q, commanding the attention of everyone in the food court, as he unzips my duffel bag and dumps it out on her table. Extra clothes for Rain, water bottles, trail mix, canned stew, dried fruit, beef jerky—all the shit I brought from Rain’s house, plus all the nonperishables I’ve been hoarding from my trips to CVS—tumble out like bombs. The cans hit the table and roll to the floor in a series of loud clangs and bangs, and everybody holds their breath and waits for Q to drop a bomb of her own.

  Her mouth curls up on one side as she admires both the spoils and the show. “Well, well, well … what do we have here, mall cop? You tryin’ to buy a spot at the big-boy table?”

  “This is Wes’s bag!” Carter declares in his best Captain America voice. The authority in his tone has me rolling my eyes.

  Fucker would have made a great mall cop.

  “He’s been hiding food, supplies, even bullets!” Carter turns and aims an accusing finger directly at me. “Kick. Him. Out.”

  It’s an Oscar-worthy performance. I’ll give him that.

  Q cackles. It starts low and deep, only in her throat. Then, it builds into something loud and psychotic. Suddenly, food and clothes go flying as she comes across the table, grabbing Carter by the face and kissing the shit out of him. He pushes her off and stumbles backward as she stands in the middle of the table, towering over him.

  “You wanna act like a little bitch? I’ma treat you like a little bitch.”

  “What the fuck?” Carter yells.

  His mom gasps and covers Sophie’s ears even though she’s too engrossed in whatever she’s watching to know what’s going on.

  “You think just ’cause I ride ya dick whenever I want that you can tell me what the fuck to do in my muhfuckin’ castle?” Q drops to her feet directly in front of Carter and shoves a sharp fingernail into his chest. “You ain’t shit, mall cop. If I should kick anybody out, it’s yo’ ass. That muhfucka’s the best scout I eva had …” Q looks directly at me as her lip curls into a sneer, and her hips gyrate back and forth. “And he looks like he could eat the hell outta some pussy, too.”

  The word pussy is the match that detonates the powder keg. Loud metal scrapes echo all around us as a dozen chairs are pushed out at once. Carter’s parents stand in disgust. The runaways leap to their feet to cheer on the madness. And I shove away from the table because Carter is stalking toward me with his hands balled into fists. I want to tell Rain to get the fuck out of here, but I don’t have a chance. I’m too busy preparing for Carter to take a swing.

  Which leaves her wide open for him to grab instead.

  Carter wraps his long fingers around her biceps and crouches down so that they’re eye-to-eye. “Rainbow, please. Just let me explain. It meant nothing, I swear!”

  Rain grunts and tries to jerk away from him, but Carter doesn’t let her go. He shakes her. He fucking shakes her, and her wide eyes asking me for help are the last thing I see before the darkness takes over.

  The sound of Rain screaming is what filters in through my consciousness first. I blink—one, two, three times—and find myself kneeling on the ground. A mound of bloody flesh is gasping beneath me, spitting blood and teeth like a human volcano. I leap off of him and try to open my hands to reach for Rain, wherever she is, but my fists feel like they’ve been run through a meat grinder. There is more screaming as Mrs. Renshaw and Sophie drop to their knees beside the mangled man on the ground.

  I watch their tears fall in slow motion, wondering if my bloody fists are the reason they’re crying, just before I hear Rain cry out, “Noooo!”

  My head snaps in the direction of her voice a split second before her tiny body collides with mine, sending us both tumbling to the floor. The wall-rattling blast of a hunting rifle being fired indoors has me back on my feet and running, dragging Rain by the hand along with me. I don’t have to look behind us to know who fired the gun.

  If somebody beat the shit out of my kid, I’d try to kill him too.

  We pass the fountain without any other shots being fired and are in the home stretch toward the main entrance when Rain digs i
n her heels like we’re about to run off the edge of a cliff.

  “Wes, what are you doing?” Her voice is shrill and terrified, and I know that I’m not done fighting yet.

  I turn and level her with a commanding stare, my eyes shifting between her and the fountain every other second. “We have to leave. Now.”

  “We can’t!”

  “Goddamn it, Rain! Either you can run or I can fucking carry you, but we have to leave right the fuck now!”

  Both of our heads jerk up as we hear the stomp, slide, stomp, slide of Mr. Renshaw’s limp coming down the hallway.

  “So help me God, boy, if I catch you round here again, I’ma hang yer head on the wall like a twelve-point buck.”

  The metallic clank of a rifle being cocked sends us both into motion again. I shove open the heavy exit door and pull my girl into the blinding spring sunlight. Instead of hauling ass straight across the parking lot, I head for the closest parked car, using it as a barricade until I’m sure the coast is clear. Rain is breathing heavily beside me, and I can’t tell if it’s from exertion or panic, but I don’t stop to find out.

  I do what I do best.

  I fucking run.

  Rain

  Carter’s face. I can’t get the image of Carter’s pulverized face out of my mind. The last time I saw a face that bloody …

  I gasp and choke on a sob as the image of my mother lying in bed, never to wake up again, slams into my consciousness like a linebacker. It doesn’t flicker, and it doesn’t flash. It blocks out my vision like a gruesome bumper sticker over my eyes as Wes drags me up the exit ramp and into the woods. I count backward in my mind. I shake my head from side to side. I use my free hand to yank on my hair, but nothing’s working.

  We stop running. Wes is talking to me, but I can’t hear him. I’m too busy trying to think of something else. Anything else. I open my eyes as wide as I can, looking all around us for a distraction, but everything reminds me of her. The woods, her motorcycle, the air in my lungs. It all reminds me that I’m alive and she’s not. Wes straddles the bike, his mouth moving like he’s giving me instructions, but I just blink at him. At his perfect face. Carter had a perfect face too, but Wes broke it. He broke it, just like my dad broke my mama’s face. Made it ugly and bloody and gone.

  Wes guides me to sit on the motorcycle. I let him manipulate my body like a rag doll.

  Is this what the Paramore girl sang about? Watching your parents destroy each other just to fall in love and make the same mistake? Will Wes do the same thing to me one day?

  I watch him as he picks up Mama’s helmet. He shoves his wild hair behind one ear, black lashes fanning out across high cheekbones, and I know she’s right. I am destined to make the same mistake. Because just like my mama, I’ve fallen madly in love with a man who is capable of doing terrible things with the best of intentions.

  Wes’s pale green eyes lift to mine, swimming with remorse and sharpened by fear, and I’m so lost in them that I don’t realize what’s happening until I’m being plunged into a dark, hazelnut-scented prison.

  Wes starts the bike, and I hold on for dear life as grief wraps its powerful tentacles around me and drags me under. I can’t hide from it anymore. I can’t fight it off. I have no distractions. Nowhere to go. It’s just me and this smell and this loss and this pain and this road taking me right back to my own personal hell.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and press my forehead to Wes’s back as a strangled cry fills my helmet. It is long and loud and primal and overdue.

  I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to go back there. Please, God. Please don’t let him take me back there.

  I rock in my seat and repeat the mantra, finding some relief in the mindless repetition, but when the bike eventually begins to slow, a fresh wave of fear washes over me.

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

  I’m afraid to look up. Afraid to let go. Afraid to face the place that holds all of my best and worst memories. I’m not ready. It’s too soon.

  When the bike pulls to a stop, Wes turns and lifts the helmet off my head. I suck in a breath that doesn’t smell like hazelnut coffee and exhale with my whole body.

  “Fuck, Rain …” Wes whispers, brushing the matted black strands away from my swollen, wet cheeks.

  I keep my eyes shut tight, content to sit here and let him touch me as long as we don’t have to go inside. “I’m not ready,” I mumble. It’s the only explanation I can give him before my face crumples again.

  “I know. I wanted to give you more time, but … time’s never really been our fuckin’ friend, has it?”

  I shake my head, my eyes still glued shut.

  “Do you think you could sit on the porch?”

  I nod, not because I believe that I can, but because I want to believe that I can.

  Wes guides me off the bike and walks me down the driveway and over to the front steps. My pulse speeds up with every step we take closer to my own living nightmare, but I push myself to keep walking.

  It’s just the porch. It’s fine. It’s just the porch.

  Wes helps me sit on the top stair and then plops down behind me so that my entire shaking body is enveloped by his.

  “You know how I brought all that stuff from your house when I came back?”

  I nod and listen, eager for him to keep talking. Wes’s voice is my favorite sound—deep and rough yet calm and quiet—and the way his chest rumbles against my back when he speaks helps me feel calmer, too.

  “I stayed here while I was gone. That whole fucking time. I don’t know if I told you that. Mostly, I just got drunk and felt sorry for myself, but when I wasn’t passed out, I fixed the place up a little.”

  “Wait. You did what?” Without thinking, I turn in his arms and open my eyes.

  Wes’s lips pull into a sweet, boyish smile, and he shrugs. “I knew you’d come home eventually, and I didn’t want you to have to see … all that … again. I found some paint in the garage. Got rid of the, um … damaged furniture. Pulled up the carpet. Did you know you got hardwoods under there?”

  I shake my head and laugh as my face wars with itself over whether to grin like a lunatic or cry like one.

  So, I give up and do both. I laugh and cry and look into the eyes of a man who destroys beautiful things … but who also makes destroyed things beautiful again. For me.

  Then, I notice something over his shoulder.

  “Wes … is that a new front door?”

  His smile spreads into a grin as he turns and looks at the country-blue slab of wood behind him with the big brass door knocker. “Look familiar?”

  “Yeah, it does actually. But I don’t—oh my God.”

  Wes chuckles and turns to face me. “The front half of Carter’s house only got smoke damage, so I was able to salvage a few things. It doesn’t exactly match the rest of the house, but at least it doesn’t have a broken-out window in the middle of it.”

  Wes shifts his weight and pulls something out of his pocket. Taking my hand, he drops a single key into my palm. “Found this under Carter’s doormat. Welcome home, Rain.”

  I stare at the tarnished metal, which suddenly feels as though it weighs as much as a house.

  No, as much as a home.

  “Listen, you don’t ever have to go back in there if you don’t want to. We can live in the fucking tree hou—”

  My heart explodes as I dive for his mouth, planting a kiss on his perfect, parted lips. I don’t care if I’m ready. I don’t care if he’s fucked up. I don’t care if we’re destined to break each other’s hearts. No one has ever loved me like this, and Paramore was right.

  That’s worth the risk.

  I pull away, clutching the key—still warm from Wes’s pocket—like a single rose. “I wanna see.”

  Wes’s eyes widen as his pupils dart back and forth between mine. “You sure?”

  I nod, not sure at all, but wanting to be … for him. And for me.

  “Come on,” I say,
using his broad shoulders to help me stand. “Show me what you’ve done with the place.”

  “Rain, you don’t have to do this.”

  I shake my head and try to put on a brave face. “I want to.”

  With a single dip of his chin, Wes takes a step back, clearing my path to the front door.

  But it doesn’t feel like a door. It feels like I’m standing in front of a massive wooden drawbridge, and inside, banging against the surface and rattling the heavy chains, is everything I’ve been trying to keep locked away in my mind. Every trauma. Every fear. Every bittersweet, fading memory. I was afraid if I let them out, they would trample me, but as I slide the key into the lock with shaking fingers, the rattling goes quiet. When I turn the knob and give it a push, the door opens without so much as a squeak. And when Wes reaches in beside me and flicks the light switch by the door, all those gruesome beasts I expected to find have been replaced with glittering, golden butterflies.

  The living room is wide open and full of light. Instead of stained, matted carpet, shiny hardwood the color of Coca-Cola is spread out before us. The only furniture in the room is a couch and a love seat, a coffee table, and the TV stand. The walls are light beige again instead of tobacco yellow. And when I inhale, I smell fresh paint instead of cigarettes and coffee.

  “Wes … I …”

  “Oh shit. Hang on …” Wes darts inside and grabs an empty liquor bottle off the coffee table. Holding it behind his back, he turns to face me, an innocent mixture of pride and shame on his handsome face.

  “You did all this in a week?”

  “Yeah …” Wes looks around for a place to stash the bottle. He sets it down next to the TV stand, where I can’t see it. “It turns out that ripping up carpet feels a hell of a lot better than putting your fist through a wall.”

  Wes starts walking back toward me, but I don’t let him get more than a few feet before I run and leap into his arms, peppering his face with kisses.

  Wes laughs as I grip his stubbled cheeks, kissing his tired eyelids, his strong brows, his straight nose, and smooth forehead, and it’s a sound I never thought this house would hear again.